


hold back the river

by ryanman98



Category: Fire Emblem: Soen no Kiseki/Akatsuki no Megami | Fire Emblem Path of Radiance/Radiant Dawn
Genre: (I guess?) - Freeform, (really vague but it's there), Dragon sex, M/M, Outdoor Sex, Post-Canon, Public Nudity, Public Sex, Smut, Teratophilia, don't @ me about sand in the ass, its furry shit okay its jsut furry shit, public displays of tenderness, sex in a river, sex in the rain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-08-19 19:49:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16541054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryanman98/pseuds/ryanman98
Summary: ike likes the river for many reasons. mostly, he likes it for the weather.





	hold back the river

the river is deep and wide and slow, flowing towards the sea but in no hurry to get there. it's a dark green, filled with algae and fish, and it's clearish close to the shore, but it's so deep in the center that you can't see the bottom to guess how deep it is— not that you really need to know anything about the river's depth except that you don't want to swim out that far. even a slow river with sandy banks has a current that'll get the better of even a strong swimmer. that's what you learn first when you make your home beside a river: the river will sustain you, allow you to use its water to wash your clothes and clean your blades, allow you to feast on its fish and the game that drinks from it, allow you to dig mud and clay from its bed to build your home, allow you to pole your boats upstream and take its leisurely current down, but it will just as soon drown you in its current and sweep your body out to the bay if you are foolish enough to wade too far into its depth.

the river cares not for the people that depend upon it, only that they remember their place. and in that vein, it cares not who you are— all life draws the same from the river, and so too will the river drown the fools that go too far. poor, wealthy, old, young, laguz, beorc; all will drown the same in the current.

soren likes that. many would call him cynical for it, taking comfort in the knowledge that at least he'll die the same as any other, but he's never been one to try and attribute empathy to the natural world— trying to do so feels condescending, as if in trying to tell a child afraid of a garter snake that they needn't be afraid, one is also saying that all snakes are harmless, which is false at best and lethal at worst. _better_ , soren says, _to present things as they are._

ike is far from a cynic, but he understands. perhaps it's because it's not that cynical at all— death is a fact, an inevitability. but ike isn't going to discuss it, not when there are other things to think about, and that suits the both of them just fine.

ike likes the river for a lot of reasons. he likes it for its weather, with mild winters and humid summers and rainy seasons in between. he likes it for its solitude, removed far enough from the nearby towns that nobody tries to bother them. he likes it for the stray dogs that wander through and greet ike like they're old friends because ike always lets them have bones off the duck and deer he hunts for dinner, and for the stray cats that feast on the mice that wriggle into their pantry in search of their barley and rice. he likes it for its catfish and trout, its berry bushes, its treasure troves of wild onion and lemongrass; for its slow but ever-present current past ike's calves when he wades in, for its reeds and cattails that sway in the breeze, and for its song of crickets and owls and cool night breeze off its surface when the sun goes down. 

soren's scales are dark gray like the telltale towering stacks the clouds make when a summer squall blows in, and they cover him in thick patches where the elements would hit the most— his back, his shoulders, his arms, his shins, and they get smaller and lighter and give way to brown skin over the rest of him. on his face they climb to his temples, outline the bumps on his brow ridge and the nubby horns that stick up and back just above his hairline. when ike first knew him, he would always say they were ugly. ike doesn't remember when he stopped saying it so much, and isn't sure if he stopped because he doesn't think it anymore or because he knows ike doesn't like it when he talks about himself like that.

he has a basket of vegetables on his hip. they dug their garden further up the bank, past where the river reaches when it floods, and the soil's been good to them. soren gets ike's attention in a very soren way— which is to say, he chucks a parsnip ike's way and waits for ike to reflexively catch it and turn around.

he jerks his chin at the clouds on the horizon. "rain's blowing in," he says. "make sure to bring in the bedding from the line before it starts." 

ike nods. he's ankle-deep in the water with a fishing pole tucked in the crook of his arm, turning over a little metal piece in his hands that washed up on the bank, like so many things do. "soren, what d'you make of this?" 

soren holds up his hand. ike tosses it. soren gives it a look, then throws it back. 

"it was an edge protector for a tome," he says. "probably too small to use now." 

"i'll keep it, and if i find more of its like, i can turn 'em all over to the smith," ike muses. 

soren tsks. "that's what you said about that box of smashed pottery, and you still haven't been able to figure out how to put them back together."

"i'm saving it for a rainy day," ike protests.

soren chucks a potato at him. ike catches it and throws it back, and it sails in a perfect arc before landing in soren's vegetable basket. 

soren rolls his eyes. "two points to ike," he drawls, twirling a finger in the air. "what a play." 

"i'll bring the bedrolls in in a minute," ike promises. "let me see if dinner's gonna bite first."

soren leaves him to it. the breeze musses ike's hair and cools the sweat on his skin. the fish aren't biting, so ike reels his line back in and stretches out his stiff shoulders. he puts the pole back inside and starts to strip out of his sweaty clothes. it looks like game is going to be a better option, though ike doubts much will be out— it's harder to hunt when it's raining. 

ike, the rest of his clothing discarded, shrugs the sweat-stained shirt from his shoulders and leaves it draped over a chair. he's back outside, resting a hand on the door frame and watching the churning clouds, when soren marches past him, picks up the shirt, and throws it at him.

"i was getting to it," ike promises.

"touch it once, ike," soren chides. "get the bedding."

ike does so. 

soren tucks the quilts between the mattress and the creaky wooden bedframe. it's still a little uneven, but it's better than ike's other attempts at teaching himself carpentry— it holds their weight no matter how much it creaks and complains whenever they shift, and it keeps them insulated from the ground. the other four tries served their purpose better as firewood. but trial and error is how ike teaches himself how to get to all the blessings the river provides— he likes trying to figure it out, and the rush of accomplishment that he feels when he gets it is more rewarding than a battle could ever be. 

the breeze is cool, its fingers combing ike's hair back from his face like some old matriarch telling him to quit covering up his eyes, and with it the breeze brings petrichor, the smell of rain on fertile earth. the horizon is dark with sheets of rain. it's a rainstorm, not a squall, but rain is still rain, and it'll still soak the bedsheets and get who-knows-what into their water distiller. soren has the distiller covered and the shutters closed tight. they've seen rainstorms before— they know what to expect. 

they have a few minutes yet before the rain begins, the thunder still faint on the horizon. the breeze is a soothing balm to his sweaty skin. the pebbles of the riverbank press into the bare soles of his feet, but it stopped hurting long ago, and soon the rock gives way to layers of silt that squish beneath ike's feet while the water laps at his calves and forms dewdrops on the hair that doesn't stay submerged. he crouches in the river, swirling his hand through the silt, and the digging overturns a broken piece of terra cotta.

he feels the pads of soren's fingers brush across his arm, and soren is there— always in step and half a pace behind, allowing him to lead, but never so far back that he can't turn to soren for guidance. sorin's fingers trace ike's arm down to his hand, and ike brushes his thumb across the gradient from scales to skin, skin to scales. 

"you and your broken things," soren says. ike knows he is not talking about the pottery. 

"maybe it'll fit with the rest of the pottery we've found," ike suggests.

"maybe," soren agrees. "come on, we should get back inside before the rain starts."

"we've still got time," ike says, looking at the clouds. the rain hasn't come. they still have time.

"all we have is time," soren replies. 

ike nods. time is of no object to the river. he knows, too, that time is of no object to soren— although soren is only half-dragon, he still lives longer and stiller than a human would, unbothered by the passage of time if it doesn't knock directly on his door. ike may try, but he still has to acknowledge it to keep track of his own years, to measure the seasons between his last sparsely-worded letter that'll take another several months to make it to tellius. perhaps ike has decided that tellius has nothing for him anymore, but he refuses to leave mist without a word. 

what can he say— she'll always be his baby sister.

soren purrs. he's crouched beside ike in the river. the skin of a dragon laguz doesn't grow deeper shades of brown when the sun hits it, but darker, scalier, and the scales grow stronger and darker. they reach down soren's nape and back, outlining ridges on his spine and slender stalks of keratin thicker than human hair but resembling it in how it grows. soren's scales are dark gray, but in the dimness of the overcast sky, they still hold an iredescence of oil on water, of deep but brilliant gem tones hiding beneath onyx darkness. as long as ike's known him he's kept them wrapped in robes from ankle to neck and it's only now, now, when they're hundreds and hundreds of miles from tellius, that soren lets them see the sunlight and cover his back while he digs his sharp black claws into their vegetable patch. 

"soren," he says. 

soren hums.

"i'd like to kiss you," he says.

"then do so," soren replies. 

ike does. he is, after all, only human.

his knees meet the soft silt. water splashes against his thighs. and there's soren against him, every scale familiar to how ike's hand traces them— skin to scales and scales to skin, everywhere they grow. ike pushes further into the river searching for purchase in the current— its current is cold but ike has bathed in this river time and time again and he knows it, and knows that he need not flinch from the cold. the sky rumbles again and the rain begins, and it, too, is cold, but not so cold ike recoils. and the rain keeps going, pouring into the river and soaking ike and soren the same as it soaks the ground. 

ike pauses. "i _did_ bring the bedding inside, didn't i?"

"gods, ike, shut up," soren says. soren kisses him and ike forgets about the bedding. 

soren kneels between ike's knees. his hands are on ike's cheeks, soren's scaly hands with claws he's let grow sharp and thick, and ike doesn't remember when he started to do that but he's glad soren's not going to bite them until they bleed and spit the clippings into the carpet anymore. ike turns his head to kiss soren's palm, tough with scales at the heel. then his wrist, up his arm, his bicep. he hears his name on soren's lips, murmured like a benediction. his lips find soren's neck and the vestigal nub of a horn poking from his jawbone, and ike kisses that, too. the rain pours and ike is not cold, either in the river or in the rain. 

"ike," soren purrs. ike kisses his teeth with the fervor of a hungry man at a feast; his name gets lost in ike's lips and turns into kisses, into soren's teeth scraping his lips and tongue. soren will deny it if you tell him he purrs, so ike only thinks it— thinks to himself how sweet a sound it is, and how much he relishes hearing soren make such a sound. in it, perhaps, is selfishness— knowledge that he is the only one soren will allow to hear him purr, the only one soren will allow to see him when he gossips with the stray cats in a language of chirps and clicks that he knows but does not know how. this is how ike likes it— they are, for each other, keepers of knowledge they do not want anyone else to know.

this is another reason ike likes the river— for the fact that out here, no one knows who he is but soren. soren's is the only voice he hears, soren's is the only face he sees, and soren is the only one for hundreds and hundreds of miles that knows who he used to be.

the rain makes soren's hair stick to his face, so ike pushes it back. soren purrs into his touch and presses his face into ike's neck.

"we should go inside," ike says.

"we _could_ do that," soren admits.

ike kisses him again. it's difficult to think about stopping for even a second to return inside when soren is right there, right inside his arms. they have carved out a space on the river and that space is at each other's side, nude and knee-deep in the bank and with no one around for miles.

the rain pours on. it could be hours or minutes but ike doesn't care. soren's hand finds the spot between his legs and ike murmurs a request for permission to touch him in the same place; soren grants it, presses his back to ike's chest. the water is cold and one would think that soren would be too, but he's as warm-blooded as any beorc and his form is so familiar against ike's that ike couldn't feel cold even if he tried.

"this is probably a bad idea," ike mumbles.

"shut up and fuck me, ike," soren purrs.

with such a kind invitation, how can he refuse?

ike doesn't know nor care how long it takes. he doesn't care about the chill of the rain or the current of the river, of the stones of the riverbed pressing into his skin. he cannot make himself care when soren is pressed against him, when he has his nose in the dip between soren's neck and shoulder. ike doesn't think it's the sex that matters, really— what matters to him is soren and knowing that soren is there, his claws in ike's skin, his teeth in ike's lips.

ike doesn't care when the rain stops but when the afterglow fades the rain has turned to a sparse drizzle and the sun is breaking through the overcast sky. he turns his face skyward and his hair, sopping wet, falls in his face.

soren pushes it from his eyes and kisses him, soft and slow.

"alright, but," ike says. " _did_ i bring the bedding in?"

soren barks out a laugh. " _that's_ what you're worried about?"

"well, i wouldn't want it to get soaked." it's a reasonable question as far as ike is concerned.

"you are," soren pauses. " _ridiculous_."

ike snorts, and soren laughs, and they kiss again. ike squints in the sunlight and leans back, letting soren peel himself away and dunk himself further in the river to wash off the sweat. he stays under for a while, and when he comes back up, he cards his fingers through his hair. the breaking sunlight reflects in red and blue and gold and green off his scales. he breathes out a sigh, and boosts himself onto a shelf of rock on the riverbed to lie down in the sunshine.

ike follows his example. he shakes the rainwater out of his hair and sits on the edge of the rock shelf, his legs dangling over the side. soren hums in satisfaction, and ike expects he'll start purring again soon.

"you _did_ bring the bedding in, by the way," soren says. "not right away, but you got to it."

"oh, that's good." the idea of curling up in bed sounds really good now that ike's left the river and the chill has set in. as it is, he turns back to look at soren, stretched out on the rock in the sunshine, and his heart stirs with warmth.

"soren," ike says.

soren hums.

the words ike wants to say stick in his throat. he's not used to saying them— they hold a meaning that ike's not used to feeling so deeply. but he can say them in a different way.

"i'm glad we settled here," he says. "i like this river."

"it's a nice river," soren hums.

ike nods. he watches driftwood float by in the river current. "i like it because it's so quiet," he says. "there's no one around here but us. i like it because it's warm and sunny and the winters are mild. i like it because it has everything we need. i like it because we get lost and broken things floating downstream."

soren hums again. ike turns back to look at him.

"you're always at your best in warm weather," he says. "i know you've never liked the cold. i know you like to lie down in the sun to nap sometimes. i know you like the quiet, that no one's going to bother you if you don't decide to go into town, which you don't have to do because i tend to do that instead. it's just us out here and nobody for hundreds of miles knows who we are or who we used to be."

soren sits up. "what are you saying?"

_i like this river because it means you're at your best,_ ike thinks. _i like this river because i love you._

ike shrugs. "nothing much."

but soren would be a fool to believe him when he says that. he smiles, and lies back down. "i love you, too, ike."


End file.
